Celestalis sits down in the square, under an abstract sculpture. He looks exhausted.
“And this is the last ground-to-air system, Sir”, a dark haired officer in her late twenties says. “All our warehouses should be safe, plus all the main public places. This doesn’t exclude collateral damage, of course, and won’t last forever”.
Celestalis stands up, dismisses the officer with a pat on the shoulder, then jumps in his black helico. Once in, he swallows three painkillers, drinking something from a plastic flask and ignites the vehicle.
“I went and see the crash. Terra Gunship. Black, with red insignia, just like ours, Lawrence. Black Guards of Nova Venetia”
“I know, Frida”
“Did we take it down?”
“No, Frida. No idea who did it, actually”
Frida opens the small fridge, pours herself a glass of vodka, gulps it down. She turns to Celestalis.
“We hacked their signal, Lawrence. They’re bombing Hangars. From tomorrow.”